Mount Up on Wings as Eagles
by MissAnnThropic
Summary: In the end, Dean said yes first.


Title: Mount Up on Wings as Eagles

Author: MissAnnThropic

Spoilers: Season 5

LiveJournal: miss_annthropic(dot)livejournal(dot)com

Summary: In the end, Dean said yes first.

Disclaimer: None of it's mine. I'm just a sad little fangirl that spends her days writing fanfic and watching DVDs of her favorite shows :(

Author's Note: So I'm probably the only one, but I _really_ want Dean to say yes and become Michael's vessel. I think that has the potential to be off the charts cool. Sam as Lucifer… no thanks, we've seen Lucifer, and we knew he's a whiny, emo little bitch. But Michael could still be a winged badass. I'm holding out so much hope.

* * *

In the end, Dean said yes first.

There had been remarkably little fanfare about it when the moment finally came. Michael borrowed a ten-year-old boy in order to talk to Dean (because next to Dean, Jonathan Henley had been the most suitable vessel - - Dean would try not to see anything in the fact Michael's second-pick suit was named 'John').

It wasn't the aftermath of a particularly vicious hunt or the backlash of another fight with Sam. Nothing so high-strung and intense as that. It was just life after Hell.

For Dean, that was enough.

The world in the birthing pains of the apocalypse was ugly, but it was nothing like Hell. Dean tried to understand this was the end times, the precipice over which all mankind stood poised to fall, but in his heart all Dean could think was 'this is _it_?'

Sam talked about the horror, the agony, the terror of the apocalypse. Dean couldn't tell his little brother 'you ain't seen nothing yet', because he'd know soon enough.

For it seemed there was nothing the Winchesters could do to stop it. For all they had done to start it.

Dean hid behind his recriminations of Sam for breaking the final seal, but he never forgot that it had been _he_ who broke the first.

* * *

Dean was sitting on the park bench, just bearing up under the load of his part and blame in the end of the world. He waited for Castiel to find him.

It was another angel that walked up to Dean Winchester.

Michael sat down on the bench next to Dean and looked quietly at him.

Dean stiffened. He'd developed a sixth sense about the angels, and he looked askance at the tow-headed, blue-eyed boy staring up at him. He briefly wondered how this one had found him.

"So, which one are you?" Dean grunted.

"I am Michael."

Dean's body jerked, but he didn't fly off the bench. He turned his head to look pointedly at the small boy. "You angels pedophiles now, riding around in little kids?"

Michael's mouth twitched on one side in an almost-smile. "Actually, children are roomier than you adults are. Not as much sin crammed in here to make the skin tight. Innocence wears well."

Dean grimaced and hunched his shoulders, as if Michael could be warded off like a rain cloud.

"Dean… we need to talk," Michael said gravely, and it was creepy how _old_ that young voice could sound.

"I know what you want, and you can go fu…take a hike," Dean changed his sentence mid-stream, not sure how much the vessel, the boy housing Michael, would hear or remember.

There was silence a moment, and in it Dean curled in on himself and _wanted_ Sam there and _needed_ Sam to stay away. He needed attention and needed every human being on the planet at least ten miles away from him. He needed to scream and cry and kill and atone for all the blood. He closed his eyes and saw flesh peeled back from bones, blood like rivers, and his hands the cause.

"I can help you, Dean… let me," Michael said gently.

"Yeah, sure… I know how much you _want_ to help me. You just want me to be your _vessel_. Helping me has nothing to do with it."

Michael inched closer across the bench to Dean, and Dean went rigid. "You're wrong about that." Michael leaned in, voice dropping to a confidential whisper, "I know your torment."

Dean closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. If Michael hadn't hijacked a kid, Dean would have turned around and punched him in the face. Hell surged through his veins, burning hot and bright. Four decades of memories raced through his mind, blood and flesh and skin and bone, all painted orange by fire.

The Winchesters were cursed to be shaped forever by fire.

"You don't have to suffer," Michael said softly.

Despite himself, Dean barked on an exhale that might have had delusions of laughter. "Oh, sure… I'll just forget all about it. Easy. Nothing more than a bad day at the office."

Michael looked down at his tennis shoes, one lace untied and dangling. "I wish it could be easy for you." Michael looked up again at Dean, bright blue eyes shiny with unshed tears. "What you went through… it can never be forgotten."

Dean _hurt_ to hear those words, though he had always known. It had just been a kernel of hope that somehow, maybe, he could sleep in peace again.

"The burden you are carrying, the memory of where you've been and what you've done… it's more than a human body can endure… but not more than an angel can."

Dean was giving up even before he knew he was. His body was going lax, first his arms dropping limply to his sides. "Right… that's all it is, you just want to _help_ me. Absolutely nothing in it for you."

"You're right... there is something in it for me," Michael agreed. "The saving of the world."

Dean sighed weakly. He should know better than to talk to angels. Silver-tongued bastards. He made it sound so simple, so easy, so…

Peaceful. Peace was something Dean had thought lost to him, left behind in the pit where his heart had been carved out more times than he could count.

Michael offered him solace. Respite. The truth was that Dean was so tired he might have buckled just at the offer of a solid night's sleep free of the nightmares.

"Sam…" he whispered brokenly, not knowing he was going to do it until the sound passed his lips.

Michael looked aggrieved. "Lucifer will not stop trying to steal your brother. Accept me, Dean, and I will promise you that Lucifer will not lay claim to Sam Winchester."

It could well be a paper-thin promise, but Dean wanted to believe it so badly. He'd done everything he could for Sam and every time it was not enough. Things just kept getting worse and worse, and Dean was starting to panic. He could swear, some nights, he woke and felt the devil breathing down their necks.

"I say yes to you," Dean croaked, "and Lucifer takes Sam."

"Lucifer cannot do _anything_ without Sam's consent. You must act before Lucifer gets to Sam. Agree to help me, and you and I will make sure Lucifer can't _touch_ him. Without Sam as his vessel, Lucifer will never be as strong as we can be together. _Together_, we can protect Sam."

Protect Sam. Sometimes Dean thought that one mission defined the whole of his existence. To fail again, after coming up short so many times already… he didn't have the strength for that.

Michael gently brought up a hand and touched Dean's shoulder. Dean jolted at the sense of _serenity_ that poured from that one small touch. A small part of Hell was chased away, and Dean gasped like a drowning man breaking the water's surface.

"I can make the pain stop," Michael said gently. "I can lift your fears, your weaknesses, your broken soul… and we can rise up on the wings of angels."

To lose the crushing weight of a life stressed to the breaking point, to shake it all and become air and light… Dean _wanted_ that. He wanted it so much he couldn't breathe.

"…Sam…" Dean rasped.

"We will keep him safe," Michael vowed.

Suddenly Dean could hear his mother's voice echoing from Dean's childhood '_go to sleep, Dean, angels are watching over you_.'

They hadn't been, but they could be for Sam.

Dean wasn't strong enough to keep Sam safe anymore. He'd tried so hard, given up his soul for it, but he just wasn't enough. Sam kept getting hurt, going astray, losing who he was.

And Dean was so very, very weary of feeling like the earth was on top of him rather than under him.

As if Michael heard, he said, "Say yes… and cast off this inhuman load. With me, you will be no heavier than a thought."

Dean started to shake.

Michael's hand strayed to Dean's face, tiny, cool fingers touching Dean's fevered cheek. "Do it for Sam… and the world."

Michael had them in the right order to make Dean agree. Dean caved. He bowed. He dipped his chin and croaked brokenly, "Yes… okay? Just… _yes_."

It felt like a clawed fist loosened its grip on his heart.

Michael took his hand away and smiled serenely. "You've done the right thing."

Dean braced for… _it_. He couldn't imagine being inhabited by an angel was easy or painless.

But Michael merely got off the bench and turned to look at Dean. "I will find you tonight. I must see Jonathan safely home first. And I want you to have the chance to say goodbye to Sam."

Gratitude washed over him, relieving him of a fear he had barely kept in check. He railed against the idea he would never see Sam again. He stopped hating Michael then, because he understood Dean _needed_ to see his brother.

* * *

Dean couldn't bring himself to tell Sam what he'd done. Sam would be furious, and Dean didn't want their last day together to be spent fighting. The tension that had built between them like a twisting cord was still there, but Dean stopped contributing to the torque. He had one night left, and if it was wrought with anger it wouldn't be because of Dean.

Maybe Sam sensed that somehow, or maybe he just wanted things to be okay again so badly that the moment Dean didn't push, didn't heckle, Sam relaxed his defensive posture. If Dean wasn't picking a fight, Sam wouldn't either.

For a night, they were brothers. Not the same as before, for nothing could ever be as it was, but they were a post-apocalyptic pair of Winchesters. They stayed inside their motel (for a night willing to ignore any dark creatures roaming the streets). They stayed away from news channels on the television. It was all gone to Hell on planet earth, and they didn't want to know the details. They drank beer and told stories, and when the tales from their younger days starred the dead, hunters and civilians alike, they didn't highlight the fact.

Sam fell asleep sprawled on his back, like a holy man praying to Heaven for benediction.

Dean sat on his bed and studied Sam while he slept. He dredged up every memory of Sam he could, from the moment the screaming baby was placed in his arms by their father. So many to treasure, so much love through all the darkness.

As he was preparing to play host to an archangel, Dean made a pledge to himself to make every single memory he had of Sam sacrosanct. Michael could keep his God. Dean would worship to the memory of Sam.

Finally, Dean rose and approached Sam's bed. Sam was peacefully asleep. He looked incapable of being the one who had unleashed the devil.

Dean smiled crookedly to himself. Dean had spent his whole life looking after Sam, cleaning up his messes… that hadn't changed. It was Dean's _job_ to watch out for Sam, to keep him safe. Whatever that took, that's what Dean would do.

Dean reached down and brushed back a lock of Sam's hair. He bent down and pressed a feather-light kiss to his baby brother's forehead. "I love you, Sammy," he breathed faintly.

The thing Dean noted most in that instant was that for all the shaving cream, deodorant, gun oil, and smoke, Sam still smelled the same as he did as a baby. Under the grit and grime of the hunt, _Sammy_ was still there.

Dean straightened and went to the motel room door. His hand on the doorknob, he cast one last look back at his brother. Sam was splayed in the moonlight, and Dean forgave him. Everything. He'd made mistakes, but there was no soul more repentant than Sam. The youngest Winchester would walk to the ends of the earth to make things right.

Despite the evil he had unleashed, no human being was more pure of heart than his unwavering little brother.

Dean stepped out into the night and looked down the empty parking lot. Picking a random direction, he started walking.

The essence of the holy swept over Dean near the road intersection, and Dean ground to a halt. There was no sign of anyone else, but still Dean felt the presence.

Dean looked up at the night sky, held out his arms, and said, "Well…?"

Blinding light bathed him and a vortex of cold air swirled around him. He closed his eyes and waited.

_Divinity_ filled him. The sacred, the holy, the anointed, the blessed… air and light and power rushed down through him, crashed against every boundary and then broke past, bound and unbound, freeing Dean from the claustrophobic physical form that had become a prison. The holy warrior of God poured into him, swelled inside beyond the limits of human form, and in there there was no room for the fire and brimstone of Hell. The fires were put out, doused, the blood scoured away by the light. Michael banished the demons and hell hounds as he took up Dean.

Dean felt _weightless_. A powerful force swept him up and held him aloft. He was cradled, like a child, sedate and comforted.

Dean wanted to cry. But he couldn't. He no longer had the power to do anything… his body took commands from another. He stayed in those soft arms of air and light and watched, heard, felt… but did not do.

He had always thought that being helpless, a bystander, would be nothing but torture to him.

In that moment, he felt only _relief_. It wasn't up to him anymore. He could rest. After more than seventy years (his own thirty odd and then the forty he suffered in Hell), he could let someone else do the fighting.

And Sammy would be protected. He sensed Michael throughout him, in him. He knew there was ferocity in that archangel, but also honesty. Michael would uphold his one promise to Dean. While on his holy mission to save the world, he would keep Sam safe.

Michael, in Dean's body, stood at the deserted intersection and breathed for the first time in his proper vessel. He wiggled his fingers. Then he arched back and flexed his wings. Dean felt them, the sweeps of ethereal feathers grabbing starlight and wind, and it felt _incredible_. They stretched as though to shield the entire planet. They were strong and surging, and Dean wondered how Castiel didn't buckle constantly under the enormity of his own.

Then Michael beat the mighty wings and, with a sound of sheets snapped in the wind, they were _flying_.

Weightless, free, unfettered, and unbound. They were become light and air.

Dean's mind began to fade, grew muffled and distant from the world. Where it was peaceful. He caught snatches of reality, flashes of his new life as host to an archangel, but mostly it was just the warm, white blanket of the angel's grace.

Michael soared to rally his brothers.

Dean lived in the essence and was the sword that would save the world.

And Sam.

END


End file.
